


Vignettes collection

by wildenights



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Humour, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:53:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29221998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildenights/pseuds/wildenights
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

1\. 

The moment they are alone, Crowley gives in to his fatigue and all but collapses into Aziraphale's arms. 

“Oh dear,“ the angel speaks softly into his hair, "we will need a bed."

Crowley barks out a laughter. He is so exhausted it is bordering absurdity. Unfortunately, they cannot leave this place without taking care of the goddam artefacts. The amendment goes something like: _Don't let magic stuff get into the hands of mortals._ And that's basically why they are still here. Formalities. 

Aziraphale does most of the work. He puts all the artefacts in a box and miracles them back to the village. He even helps him to the bench. Just when he’s about to stand up and move away, Crowley grabs his sleeve. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale looks down at him, eyes heavy with emotion Crowley is too scared to name. "You're welcome." 

He sits down on the other end of the bench and folds his hands in his lap. The familiar mannerism makes Crowley smile. An idea pops into his head.

“Tempt you to a bottle of red?”

Aziraphale looks at him with gratitude. “You know I can resist everything except temptation.”

Crowley grins.

The wine just appears. It's one dusty bottle and they drink from it in turns. And even though Crowley feels like he's going to die from exhaustion anytime soon, he has to admit that this moment is pretty special. What with the way the angel keeps brushing his hand every time they pass the bottle between them. What with the way Crowley loves him.

2.

Crowley doesn’t realise he’s crying until Aziraphale stops talking and asks in a worried tone, “what’s wrong, my dear?”

They are still at the Ritz. The sky outside has darkened and the pianist has had two smoking breaks so far. There’s a candle on the table in front of them, tall and yellow, slowly dying as the evening progresses.

Crowley touches his hand to his cheek and discovers the moisture there. He wipes it away fast, his cheeks burning.

“What do you mean?”

Aziraphale studies him carefully. ”Have I said something wrong?”

“What?” Crowley snaps, confused by the question, “no, no! You haven’t. Nothing to worry about, angel. Tell me more about the secret cocoa recipe. So, you add the marshmallows, yeah? And then what? There must be a different secret ingredient because otherwise the recipe isn’t secret at all. Everybody knows about the marshmallows.”

Aziraphale closes his mouth and doesn’t say anything for a while. He doesn’t even resume nibbling on his cheese cake. There’s an expression on his face that’s full of worry still and now tainted also with a little bit of guilt. Clearly, not the one he’s had on before, the one of childlike excitement as he was telling Crowley about the secret cocoa recipe that he’s found in one of his centuries-old cooking books. The mood’s shifted. Crowley’s own tears betrayed him and now the silence is almost unbearable. 

“Angel, you really shouldn’t worry about me,” he pleads.

“But your eyes, dear. Can I see them?”

“My eyes? Why would you want to see them?”

“Please,” Aziraphale interrupts him in such insistent tone that all resistance Crowley’s planned to show, drains away.

“Okay,” he admits with a sigh and slides the Valentinos off with a jerk of his hand.

A soft gasp escapes Aziraphale’s lips the moment his tear-stained eyes are revealed. Crowley lowers his gaze in shame.

“Darling,” Aziraphale speaks softly, “what on Earth is going on?”

There’s enough sharpness in his voice for Crowley to look up again. He swallows, wondering what’s there to say. He shakes his head at his own sentimentality.

“It’s… it’s not what it looks like.” He offers him a watery smile. “I am happy. Those are happy tears.”

Aziraphale gapes at him in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

Crowley wipes off his eyes with the hem of his sleeve and puts the sunglasses back on. He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself down. 

“Have you never cried from happiness?” 

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at him. “No.”

“Have you ever cried from sadness?”

“No- oh wait, yes. I have.”

“Well, then imagine that feeling you had when you cried from sadness but imagine it in reverse. That’s how I feel right now - the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“But why?”

“What why?”

“Why are you the happiest you’ve ever been?”

He can feel himself blush again. The answer has been sitting on his tongue for the past 6,000 years. He wants to say it. He wants to get it off his chest but the longer he looks into Aziraphale’s eyes, the less courage he has. He feels it leaving him, making way for fear and doubt.

Aziraphale catches his hand on the table and squeezes it tight.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me.”

“But you deserve to hear it.” His voice is so small it doesn’t even sound like his own.

“And you deserve to say it when you’re ready, my dear.”

“What if I will never be?”

Aziraphale smiles at him then, an adoring smile, one that heals and destroys Crowley both at the same time. 

“Then it won’t make a difference to me because I already know.”

3.

Of course they become inseparable after the averted apocalypse.

There’s no yours or mine anymore. There’s just home. _Let’s go home,_ Aziraphale says after their date at the Ritz. And, the truth is, it has always been their home. The bookshop. The place Crowley associates with warmth and safety, where he’s hidden himself many times in the past, where all his fears just disappear and he can sleep in peace. They go there. They go home. 

But it’s not quite like he remembers. 

The feeling’s stronger. The walls remember him in the fire. They witnessed his grief and rage. They know how deep the bond goes and they are ready to protect it.

Because, just look at him. Aziraphale belongs here. The bookshop loves him back. It’s a joy, watching him reunite with it. He is adorable. The way he touches the backs of the books and hugs the pillars upon which the ceiling stands. The way he frowns at the new titles but can’t quite hide his interest in reading them.

Crowley falls even deeper. Not sure how that is possible, but he does.

He leaves him to it and explores the rest of the place, with his own eyes this time. The backroom looks the same as ever. There’s the sofa and the armchair, the desk and the wardrobe. It’s not much. 

It’s very small in fact. So small, Crowley starts playing with the idea of rebuilding it into something bigger. Something with a bedroom for a start.

And so he gets on with it. He doesn’t change much about it since he wants to preserve its cosiness but he does let his imagination run a bit wild.

He adds another sofa and a fluffy carpet that covers the entire floor. He elevates the ceiling and miracles a fancy chandelier that he hangs from it because it looks dope.

He leaves the backroom (now a proper living room) be and proceeds onto the next important room, the bathroom. He builds a bath, about the size of a small swimming pool and installs five different kinds of faucets to the bottom. 

At last, he miracles a bedroom that would make any couple jealous.

Speaking of couples, he goes to find Aziraphale.

Of course he finds him reading.

Crowley smiles because he should have known. He sits down next to him, leaning closer to his body heat, resting his head on his shoulders.

He squints at the letters.

“What’s it about?”

“Hmm?”

Crowley chuckles and presses a kiss to his cheek. He doesn’t repeat his question. Instead, he moves even closer to him and slides his hand under his shirt. He feels him shiver from the unexpected touch.

His fingers spread as far as they can and run upwards to his torso. The touch to his nipples is very gentle and slow. Crowley closes his eyes and concentrates only on Aziraphale’s sharp intakes of breath, on the way he relaxes into his touch and starts leaning into it. 

Before he knows it, there are lips on his own, demanding to be let inside. He smiles against them because that was easy. He hears the book clink against the floor and then there are hands sliding into his hair, pulling his face impossibly close. A moan escapes his lips.

He almost forgets about their new bedroom. Almost.

4\. 

Soft as feathers, Crowley’s hair is on the back of his neck. Aziraphale presses his face deeper, feels the rising and the falling of his chest as if it were his own and just remains, breathing in the familiar scent. He loves sleeping. Not as much for himself as he loves it for Crowley, to be sleeping, while he revels in the simple luxury that is the nearness, from it the warmth, the comfort. 

It is so…human. This need.

Holding Crowley, he brushes the back of his hand with his thumb, squeezes it gently, so as to not wake him but rather to reassure him, in whatever dream he’s in, that he’s also here, in their bed, being held.

He smiles in his sleep and Aziraphale adores him. 

5.

Aziraphale’s fingertips stretch and brush against Crowley’s cheek. Crowley stirs in his sleep but doesn't wake up. Accepting the challenge, Aziraphale leans over him and kisses there where his fingers have been just a moment ago.

Pale yellow fires stare back at him, unblinking.

Aziraphale blushes but doesn't budge from the position. Casually, he mouths his way up to Crowley’s brows, and showers it in a plenty of kisses. 

“What do you want?”

Crowley's voice growls like a thunder. Aziraphale knows him well enough to hear his smile behind the grumpiness. 

“Do I have to want something to kiss you?” He plays all innocent.

“You usually do,” Crowley reminds him with his eyebrows raised incredulously. 

“Not this time.”

Aziraphale traces a trail down his nose with little, snowflake kisses. Then suddenly, Crowley comes to life under him and wraps his arms around him. 

“Liar,” he says and unites their lips. 

Aziraphale finds himself on his back soon enough. Crowley is gentle with his wrists when he pins them above his head.

6.

Three times they do it. Three times and then they lose count.

First, on top of a tour bus. They sit close together. Elbow to elbow. Shoulder to shoulder. Hands joined, naturally, in Aziraphale’s lap. They’re driving down Oxford Street when Aziraphale gently cradles Crowley’s face and Crowley turns away from the window, little startled at the touch.

“What?”

Aziraphale leans forward and kisses him on the lips.

It’s the softest sensation. 

They both close their eyes, both breathe carefully the same air.

Somebody clears their throat.

They pull apart with the sound.

“What was that for?”

Aziraphale shrugs his shoulders, tries to appear indifferent but can’t contain his smile.

“Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.”

Second, inside an old tavern in Finland.

They’re on holiday and Aziraphale’s had a bit too much mulled wine. His head is on Crowley’s shoulder, his arm around his waist and he’s drifting off slowly to the sound of other people’s chatter. 

Crowley’s been listening to his voice the whole evening. The rises, the falls, the constants, he can’t get enough of them. Probably because he’s had too much to drink too.

But now the tavern is almost empty and they should get going. They don’t want to start a fight with the barman.

“Hey,” he starts as gingerly as he can, “we should sober up.”

Aziraphale lifts his head from his shoulder and opens his eyes.

He looks like a lost puppy.

“I’m sorry?”

“I said-” He stops suddenly. The realisation that he can kiss him now hits him and he does exactly that. Just for a moment, he presses their lips together, making sure to get a good taste of the mulled wine on Aziraphale’s tongue.

Soon the moment’s gone.

It’s Crowley who stops the kiss first.

“Sober up you idiot.”

He pushes himself off the table and waits for Aziraphale with his hand outstretched towards him.

Aziraphale stares at him like he doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“Oh for God’s sake.”

Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand and pulls him to his feet.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Third, in the bookshop, in the backroom, in their bed.

It’s just like their normal sleep routine until it’s not.

The lamp on Aziraphale’s side of the bed is on. He’s reading a novel of some sort while Crowley’s sprawled on his belly next to him. He’s not sleeping yet. His cheek’s pressed into the pillow. His view of Aziraphale’s perfect like this.

Unobserved, he observes him calmly - the shape of his face, the light reflected on it, the infinitesimal movements such as the one of his fingers, flipping the page, or the one of his lips curling upwards or downwards depending on where in the novel he is at the given time.

He does get observed too, eventually.

Though he closes his eyes as he’s caught and pretends to be sleeping.

So Aziraphale moves into his personal bubble. His lips hover just a bit above his own.

“I love you,” he says and then they’re kissing again.

7.

Crowley knows Aziraphale.

6000 years will do that for you if you’re observant enough. And Crowley’s far beyond observant. He’s centred. His existence depends on knowing who Aziraphale is. 

He’s kind and forgiving and warm but also very much not touching Crowley. 

There’s a book in his hands now, the first edition, and his eyes slide down the page the same way they slide down the menu at the Ritz. With love, with reverence, with appreciation, with hunger. 

He sits down on the sofa that Aziraphale’s lying on. They fit not because the sofa is particularly big but because the angel’s legs are bent. He’s using his thighs as a stand for his book and he’s using his lap to balance a cup of cocoa on it. 

The whole image of him, so peaceful and content, fascinates Crowley beyond words. It’s now, in his old sweater and those unnecessary glasses that he looks the most angelic. Just because he cares so much for something so simple as a poetry book. Just because he’s real. 

Crowley leans over and tucks a stray curl behind his ear.

Aziraphale doesn’t look up right away. He stills for a moment and then lifts up his eyes. He smiles.

“Thank you. It's been bothering me for some time now.”

Crowley smiles back. 

Aziraphale reaches for his hand and squeezes it gently. “Everything alright, love?”

He knows him so well. Crowley’s smile falters a bit. He flicks his eyes towards the cup of cocoa and then back to Aziraphale. How does he explain that he’s jealous of a physical object? How does he explain the overwhelming need to be closer?

Aziraphale understands, somehow. He sits up and leans against the backrest, offering his now free lap to Crowley. Crowley accepts so eagerly that it wins him a soft laughter from Aziraphale.

In embarrassment, he lifts up his sweater and buries his face into the soft skin of his stomach. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs fondly, “you could have just asked.”

8.

“Why do you never call me baby?” Aziraphale asks one morning between sips of tea and bites of coconut flavoured muffin.

Crowley, who’s been reading the news up until now, puts them down and furrows his brows in confusion. “What?”

Aziraphale gives him a pointed look. 

“Why do you never call me baby?”

“Why do I…”

Crowley’s expression goes from one of bored nonchalance to one of stuttering embarrassment in a matter of seconds. 

“You are asssking… why I…”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale watches him calmly. 

“Well,” Crowley blurts out, “do you want me to call you baby?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale admits rather dejectedly.

“You don’t know,” Crowley parrots in a flat tone.

“I would have to hear it first.”

Crowley groans. “Really now?”

“Yes.”

Crowley looks around in fear that somebody might be following their conversation. 

Reassured of their privacy at last, he turns back to Aziraphale with a sigh.

“You are a bastard, baby,” he says quietly.

Aziraphale gives him a sharp look before closing his eyes and pretending to be deep in thought.

“Well?” Crowley prompts him with prominent urgency.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch that, my dear. Would you mind calling me baby again?”

Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Sure, _baby_ ,” he says, stressing out the latter word in the most sarcastic way possible.

Aziraphale opens his eyes with a snap. 

“That’s not the way you are supposed to say it.”

Crowley frowns. Even though he wasn’t serious before, Aziraphale’s criticism hurts.

“What’s the way then?”

“Softer, my dear. Much, much softer.”

“Yeah, like how?”

Aziraphale smiles. “Like this, perhaps.”

“Baby,” he breathes and Crowley gasps at the tenderness of his voice, “I think you should stick with calling me angel.”

Crowley finds himself speechless.

“On the other hand,” Aziraphale continues, “do you want me to call you baby?”

Crowley’s blushing so hard at this point that even the tips of his ears are red. 

“I take that as yes.”

9.

“Kiss me,“ Aziraphale says.

Crowley tears his eyes away from the movie, flicks them towards Aziraphale and his jaw drops.

The bookshop’s glowing. There are garlands, ornaments, stockings. Even the angel himself is wearing a fluffy halo above his head. His smug, self-satisfied grin, however, is what tops it all.

“Had fun?“ It comes out rather choked out of Crowley’s throat.

“Much.“

Aziraphale looks up and Crowley follows his gaze, finally noticing the mistletoe.

“No,“ he exhales, half in disbelief, half in embarrassment because he realises what’s all this about a second too late.

“Yes.“

Crowley gets up on his trembling legs, lets the blanket fall back down on the sofa, revealing his nakedness.

He meets the angel’s gaze with a tinge of pink on his cheeks.

“Gorgeous,“ Aziraphale says. He’s staring at him like he’s the angel and not the other way around. There’s something beautifully broken about that, giving him courage to cross the room.

“Kiss me,“ Aziraphale says again when he hesitates in front of him.

And Crowley doesn’t have to be told twice.

10.

“Love, love, love.”

“What is it, angel?”

“Look at those fairy lights. They are so pretty. We must get them.”

“Must we?”

“Oh, we most definitely must.”

And so, they do get those fairy lights, hanging them up on the windows and the walls until the whole place is glowing with pink softness. Aziraphale’s quite happy with the change. 

“So, what do we do now?”

Crowley’s leaning against the doorframe, eyeing the angel with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“We enjoy the view.”

“Oh, like this?”

He makes it a point to stare at him only and he blushes.

“No.”

“How then?”

“Come sit here. I’ll show you.”

Crowley complies. He lowers himself down onto the fluffy carpet between his legs, letting Aziraphale wind his arms around his waist and pull him closer against his chest. With his head on Crowley’s shoulder he asks, “aren’t they beautiful like this?”

“Yeah,” Crowley breathes back, closing his eyes, losing himself in the pleasant warmth, “so beautiful.”


	2. From before

It is Warlock’s sixth birthday. The party ended a few hours ago and now it’s just him and Crowley, sitting side by side in the luxurious living room of the Downling residence, enjoying the last few hours before Warlock has to go to bed.

The boy’s hunched over his drawing of a giant black mamba, furiously colouring the scales on its back with a piece of coal he received earlier as a birthday gift from Crowley - the nanny who’s definitely not overflowing with pride.

A soft knock on the door makes Crowley glance at the grandfather clock on the wall and realise, with surprise, that it’s way passed the boy’s bedtime. 

“Come in,” Crowley says quietly, already knowing he’s about to get scolded by the only other person who cares about Warlock’s bedtime.

“Brother Francis!”

Warlock jumps down from his stool and runs towards him with the drawing in his hand.

“Hello,” Aziraphale greets him, smiling at the joyful boy. He bends down to be on his eye level.

“Look what I made,” Warlock says, holding up the drawing in front of his face. 

Aziraphale’s smile widens so quickly Crowley has to blink to adjust to the sudden brightness in the room.

“It’s very good, excellent, in fact,” he comments, warmth radiating from his melodic voice, ”I’m sure nanny must be very proud.”

Warlock comes over to his side of the table, placing the sketch in front of him.

“Nanny, are you proud?” 

He asks in that innocent voice of his that makes Crowley scrape his teeth.

“Very, my dear boy,” he reassures him.

Satisfied, Warlock sends him a toothy grin and climbs up on the stool again. He grabs a yellow pencil and starts colouring the snake’s eyes for a change.

Crowley turns back to Aziraphale and almost chokes on the fondness with which he’s looking at him. 

“What?” His voice comes out softer and more vulnerable than he intended. 

“Your good side is showing.”

“I don’t have a…,” he starts to protest but he runs out of air. He’s too tired to have this argument again.

“I suppose you’re right,” he sighs.

Aziraphale pulls out a chair and sits down next to him, his smile warm and teasing.

“What was that?”

Crowley sighs again, louder this time.

“I said, I suppose you’re right.”

Aziraphale beams at him and just like that, Crowley’s agitation disappears.

“You should put him to bed,” Aziraphale remarks, glancing at Warlock who yawns at the exact same moment as if to prove his point.

“Yeah,” Crowley hums softly, watching Aziraphale’s lips that are so very close that he could kiss them without even straining his neck too much.

“What’s the matter?”

“Sorry?”

Crowley focuses his attention back on Aziraphale’s worried eyes.

“Are you alright?”

“Just tired, angel,” he replies, rubbing his head that’s been unpleasantly buzzing since this morning.

“Do you want me to help?”

He nods hesitantly.

Aziraphale gives him an understanding smile and walks over to Warlock. He talks him into abandoning his drawing for the day and by some miracle, the boy actually listens to him and leaves the room to brush his teeth. 

They share a relieved look.

When Warlock emerges from the bathroom a few minutes later, already dressed in his stripey pyjama and with his mouth minty, they shower him with praises, telling him what a good boy he is that he managed to do all of that on his own.

After all, he’s only six.

“Brother Francis?” Warlock asks in surprise when he finds the gardener sitting in the chair by his bed, usually occupied by the nanny.

“Hello again, dear,” Aziraphale sing-songs, “I can read you a story or two, if you want.”

“What about nanny?” Warlock asks.

They both fall silent and Crowley assumes, they’re looking at his slumped form in the armchair by the window. 

“She needs her rest,” Aziraphale explains after a while and Crowley can’t help but smile.

“Everybody needs their rest,” the boy says.

“Yes, my dear. That’s very true.”

Aziraphale picks up the Little Prince and starts reading where Crowley stopped the night before. His tender voice lulls Crowley to sleep. It’s a warm, safe bubble that he drifts off to.

Much later, when the room is pitch black and he can hear Warlock’s even snoring from the bed, familiar arms wind themselves around his neck and he feels Aziraphale’s lips in his hair.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed as well.” 

Crowley sinks deeper into the warmth of the armchair, refusing to move.

“You can’t sleep here, darling.”

Crowley’s heart flutters in his chest at the soft pet name despite being only half awake.

“Help me up?” He requests groggily and Aziraphale pulls him up to his feet in one swift but gentle motion.

“Thanks.”

Aziraphale’s arms secure themselves around Crowley’s back, supporting him the entire way to his room. Once in Crowley’s room, he sits him down on the bed and helps him out of his clothes until he’s left in only his undershirt and boxers.

Even after he’s comfortably sprawled on the bed, Aziraphale doesn’t leave. He runs his hands through his hair and pulls out the sharp pins until his curls cascade down to his shoulders, loose and messy.

Crowley leans into the touch of his hand, sighing contently.

He feels loved and the rest doesn’t matter.


	3. From Before 2

Crowley nearly jumps out of his skin when he finds Aziraphale in his bedroom. He’s right there. Glasses and bowtie. Book and cocoa. Real as he is surreal, curled up in the armchair by his bed, too engaged in his reading to notice Crowley’s opened his eyes. 

“I thought you didn’t want to break the rules.”

Several things happen at once - the angel gasps, knocks the cocoa off his lap and cleans it up before it can burn him. A moment later, only his shell-shocked expression bears witness to the disaster.

“That was… wasteful,” Aziraphale coughs out of himself.

“Angel?”

He sighs in defeat.

“Why are you here?”

“I am always here.”

“What?!”

Crowley doesn’t normally freak out. His unchecked reaction is as shocking to Aziraphale as it is to him. It all comes down to not understanding the situation at all. Questions. He’s got hundreds of them. The most pressing one though -

“What do you mean ‘you’re always here’?”

The angel’s cheeks heat up slightly. “I always spend Christmas here when you’re asleep.”

“Do they know?” Crowley looks up.

“I’m on duty here,” Aziraphale explains.

“Oh?”

“You are too much of a risk to be left without surveillance during Christmas. I only offered to take on the job of surveilling you.”

“That’s not…”

Aziraphale gives him a pointed look. Crowley falls silent immediately. He realises what Aziraphale is trying to tell him with that look and his lips widen into a grin. The angel is a genius.

“I _am_ too much of a risk.”

“Not while I’m here.”

“Just try and stop me.”

And with that he’s out of his bed, suddenly dressed in a sleek dark leather outfit.

“I’m on my way to tempt people into resolutions they will never be able to achieve and that will only leave them with crippling guilt and low self esteem.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Aziraphale rumbles and catches up with him by the door. 

They stand so close together Aziraphale’s breath tickles Crowley’s cheek. The moment drags on. 

“Goodbye, my guardian angel,” Crowley whispers and vanishes into thin air. 

He doesn’t get very far.


	4. One more bit

“Dear, what’s all this mess about?”

Aziraphale’s standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips, staring at the heap of gold and silver glitter scattered all over the bookshop. It’s everywhere; the floor, the ceiling, even Crowley’s hair.

“What mess?”

Aziraphale gives him a pitiful look. He bends down and snatches a piece that’s somehow managed to get stuck to his eyebrow.

He holds it in the palm of his hand for Crowley to see.

“Oh this.” 

The piece vanishes.

“Don’t— “

Aziraphale frowns. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s an experiment,” Crowley reveals hesitantly.

“An experiment?”

“To see how many pieces of glitter will it take to get your attention.”

An appropriate silence follows the outburst.

“And,” Aziraphale continues in a softer tone, “how many did it take?”

“I lost count.”

With that Crowley stands up and exits the room.

It takes a moment for Aziraphale to realise what’s happened. 

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale runs after him but it’s too late. Instead of Crowley, he finds a black coil of a snake, sulking on the sofa. 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale laments upon seeing it. 

He sits down next to it and pokes it gently with his finger.

“I’m so sorry, love.”

Nothing. 

“It was not my intention to make you feel ignored.”

Still nothing. 

“Crowley, please, come back.”

The coil tightens even more.

Aziraphale sighs. He picks up the snake and places it gingerly on his lap.

A pair of honey-coloured eyes emerge from the black coil, blink twice at him.

“There we go.” Aziraphale smiles, patting its head affectionately. “You do look rather cute, my dear.”

The next moment, Crowley’s sitting on his lap, his arms folded over his chest.

“I’m not cute,” he protests. 

Aziraphale runs a hand through Crowley’s hair, admires the golden twinkle in the pale morning light. It’s quite a look on Crowley. Such sharpness to it all.

“Hm,” he ponders quietly, “maybe cute is not the most fitting word.”

“It’s not fitting at all.“

“More like beautiful, exquisite, divine, irreplaceable…”

“Shut up, angel,” Crowley says and presses their lips together.


End file.
